


When the Levee Breaks

by Cards_Slash



Series: Led Zepplin Bondage series [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Hunting kink, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 14:56:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4965154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cards_Slash/pseuds/Cards_Slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wanted him to run, he wanted to chase him, he wanted to hold him down and use him however the hell he wanted. Sam knew because he could see it—because he looked for it—because he’d been looking for it since the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Levee Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> repost from LJ.

The room was hot—hot like fire, hot like hell, hot like the late-evening humidity leaking in through cracked window panes and splintered floor boards. Nothing smart was still stuck inside with heat like that, everything was lying under a shade in the wide open world with a friendly breeze tickling belly flesh and making sweet moaning prayers that midnight would bring relief. Muggy as the air was, it wrapped around his body like unwelcomed hug, sweaty in all the wrong places and sticking in all the worse ones. Nights like this he dreamed about beer and beaches and freezing cold showers while he slept with his T-shirt pulled up to his arm pits and his shoes off. He woke up in a puddle of his own sweat and thick-dark lines of dust and dirt in every crease in his skin and it made him feel dirty in a way that he didn’t much have a right to feel anymore.

Sam went rosy with heat, all sweat on his forehead, on his straining neck and slipping in fat drops down to the collar of his shirt and soaking into the bunched up roll of it cut across his chest right above the nipple line. His cheeks were just _pink_ with heat, his eyes closed tight and sweat hanging on his lashes and the stubble on his jaw from too many days without a razor. It beaded up on his lip where his tongue caught it and his forehead wrinkled up all nice and _slick_ with it at the awful taste of broken-dirt and blistering-heat. The wetness was between his fingers, pressed into the whorls of his fingerprints and slipping down his long-thick arms. His belly button was swimming with it and all down the line of those fucking muscles little rivers and streams of sweat sank straight down. 

Down where Sammy’s thighs spread around his body their skin caught-and-stuck and slipped-and-missed. Dean’s shirt was across his thigh because the heat was too fucking much for him. Sam’s thighs were under his arms, spread around his ribs and gripping tight and brutal. All the air he gasped for was punched out with the tight squeeze of long legs crushing in and strangling his lungs through bone. Sam’s body shuddered-shuddered and _shook_ spread out like that. The old bed croaked and creaked and whined with the heat and the pressure of Sam back on his elbows and his ass on the edge of the sagging mattress. Dean was on his knees, in the splinters and tracked in dirt with his hands tracing half-realized sigils and symbols into Sam’s hot-as-hell skin. He was lazy now, licking the taste of Sam’s dick and the swimming leftovers of his orgasm out from around his teeth and lips, wiped it off his chin with a careless-sweat-soaked back of one hand while he watched Sam piece himself back together. 

Like that—oh just like that—Sam was a work of fucking art. Laying back on shaking arms, head back and hair falling, pointy chin to the sky and pointy nose sucking in breath that his mouth just couldn’t quite get, his whole body still humming-humming from a high and the long-delicious-hours of the day that Dean had spent teasing him. He’d had him strung out and wanting, off-balance and agitated for it. By the time he got his mouth on him Sam had been sobbing in praise and it had been fucking _years_ since anything has been as hot as that. 

When Sammy got his breath (stole it right out of the thick-and-wet air) he pushed himself back up, sitting there, hands slipping through Dean’s short hair and tipping his face up to look at him. His thumb was gritty across his swollen lip and pushing into his mouth, caught on his teeth and resting there. His eyes were dark in the dim light and staring right at-right-through him. “Get me ready,” he said. 

Any other time they would have kissed, would have fallen back on that creaky bed and Dean would fuck himself against Sam until he covered him in come. Sam would call him things that were only half true and Dean would kiss him again until the tingling feeling of contentment flooded out to sleepiness. 

But this time—oh this time—Sammy leaned back with spread open legs. The heat of the room spiked a thousand and Dean had to press his head against the inside of Sam’s thigh just to find a sense of reality in the sudden swimming vertigo of his own head. Sam’s fingers brushed through his hair again—(it’s okay, Dean. It’s okay; we all have our needs)—and Dean fumbled-through opening the lube and slicking his fingers with it. 

One hand on Sam’s thigh, up and open, the other down between them pressing needy fingertips at his ass and it was Sam urging backward the pushed his fingers through. They’d been here before, Dean on his knees and Sam spread open and panting for him. Hell, they’d been here countless times before, just like this, getting ready for a fuck and taking what they wanted-and-needed like greedy dogs. They’d fucked in Bobby’s house with rough hands slapped across each other’s mouths and teeth leaving marks in denial of how-fucking-wrong it was. They’d fucked in the car and on the car and in a hundred anonymous hotel rooms leaving stains on the sheets to mirror the ones already soaked into the mattress. 

Dean knew this, knew how to screw his fingers in and where to press and how to stretch Sam open to take his dick. He knew how to make the friction of his fingers rubbing like a fission that shot through Sam’s whole body and stole his words and his brain and left him nothing but a panting bitch begging for more of the same. He’d learned it all in the years of after-dark and before-dawn fucks that all started just like this and tasted just like this. Two fingers deep in Sam his body knew exactly what it was going to get and it started howling at the miserable cruelty of jeans and the limitations of human skin. 

Sam moved, slid off the bed like a slippery-damn eel, crouching over him with one fist on the bed and the other arm around his shoulders. His mouth was open and pushing hot breath against his burning hot face. His tongue caught the taste of sweat between them like a snake scenting the air. “More, Dean, I’m going to need—”

No, no, no, the shake in every part of his body. It was a dark twist of need in his gut as his heart started really pumping and Sam reached between them to catch the lube and poured it over Dean’s hand until it was puddle in his palm and dripping down on the floor to make mud of the tracked-in dirt. When Dean fucked in a third finger Sam’s hand on his back scratched four fingers across his skin into a tight fist. He clenched down against him, head back and veins and tendons standing out in needy objection. He groaned something that wasn’t his name.

“Sam,” he said and didn’t even recognize his own damn voice. Sam smiled at him, head tipped sideways and then leaned forward to press the smile in against his mouth and the taste of his breath was salt-and-mint and almost too-fucking-much. Dean closed his eyes as he fucked his fingers up into Sam and felt-and-heard-and-tasted the sharp, surprised little cry against his mouth.

\--

Sam’s heart was going to explode. Right out there, in the muggy-deep before midnight air, his heart was going to fucking _explode_. His boots caught and kicked at rocks, slipped on grass that was damp from nothing but the air and his fingers grazed against the slickness of the long green tips of that grass in the dark. His legs felt twisted wrong in his jeans, his boxers felt hiked too high on his waist, snug and pressing too close into his ass and his dick and his balls. Between his legs he was slick as the grass under his boots as he _ran_.

Oh hell, he ran as fast as he could. He ran faster than that too—out into the air with a hysterical shriek of fear rattling in his throat and lungs. It wasn’t real, not really real, because he’d seen really real fear and he’d felt really real fear and this wasn’t it. But his heart pumped into his chest just like the real thing, shoving blood through the tiny tunnels of his body, chugged it into his brain and made his thinking shut down just like an animal that knew it was hunted.

His breath was loud. Loud like drums, loud like thunder, loud like a living crowd of bodies all jumping with the throbbing beat of his heart like the wailing guitars at a rock concert and somewhere in the whistling rush of air by his ears he thought he could hear the yelping screams of excitement.

The field was wide—just as broad as a barn (or broader, so much broader)—with nothing in it but pot holes and grass and nothing around it but more empty fields. If he ran for miles he would find only the abandoned and forgotten barns at the edges of some farmer’s property. If all at once, the world had been stripped of all other humans, it would have felt just like this field felt as expansive as everything with no hope of survival.

Dean was a hunter; he’d always been a hunter even before he could remember. Sam had never known another Dean—had never known one that loved hugs or loved their mother (because for all that Dean did love a woman that died when he was only a child, he didn’t really love her that way anymore). He had always known Dean-the-hunter, lethal and quick. He was out there, in the grass slipping on quieter feet with his heart beat slower and steadier because his prey had no chance and the only concern he had for Sam’s safety was himself and the only fear he had for himself was that tip of insanity that hid in just behind his weathered and rough eyes.

Sam’s thighs felt like they’d been rubbed down past the first layer of skin to the blood-sticky second layer. He could feel where Dean’s palms had been up and down against them, slipping on sweat while he took his fucking time, used his lips and tongue and fingertips to drive Sam far past his breaking point and keep him there arched-aching and willing to do anything. Sam didn’t need it like that, didn’t need to be begged or cajoled or convinced to do this for Dean. He would have done it anyway; would have picked himself up out of the diner where Dean had set his coffee cup down with too much force and looked at him with that dismal, disappointed, darkened look that meant he’d reached his breaking point. 

Dean never said: let me chase you, let me fuck you, let me hold you down and _use_ you. No, Dean scratched at the worn old diner tables where they worked out all their requests like this (they never talked about it in the dark of the Impala or the impersonal privacy of another hotel room) his nail catching on a scratch or a rounded edge of a burn and his breath got heavy through his nose. His eyes were guarded in their darkness, a fearful creature that had seen the real depths of hell and came back more afraid of itself than it ever had been before. (But they’d done this before, of course they had, long before Dean went to hell. They worked it up in stages from rough fucking in hotel rooms to fighting for dominance in the grass by the Impala at the side of the road to Sam running and Dean following until they were somewhere anonymous.) Dean said: _I want to hunt you_.

Breathing was never optional and the harder he ran the more it hurt until his shoulders were crushing in on his chest just trying to keep up with the demands for oxygen his nose and mouth weren’t keeping up with. His body felt heavy and clumsy and he had to stop, hands on his knees and he looked back through the darkness at all the grass behind him. He was coated in sweat, slippery and slick with it everywhere but it slipped the most between his legs, washed with lube and every heaving breath reminded him of feeling of Dean’s fingers screwing up inside of him and shoving him open because he wouldn’t have the thought or kindness to bother later.

So Dean said, _I want to hunt you_ but he didn’t say it how he had year before last when he’d been so hurt and so hateful and so sure that Sam had become (at last, at last) the thing his father was so afraid he’d be. There was no anger in this, no frothing rage at Sam for making Dean do this, for bringing them to this _at last_ when it seemed like it had been written into their _genes_ to kill one another. No, this was different and it had taken months of long minutes and carefully started and aborted conversations to bring Dean to those five little words. Before he’d said nothing, just grit his teeth and his fists and let it happen by happenstance, without warning and without preparation and Sam’s body would be bruised inside and out when Dean pulled away from him (regretful, hating himself) and then pulled him back together and pushed him back to the Impala. Sam had wanted those five words but Dean had been the one that needed them. He needed to know that Sam said yes, that this was okay, that this was something they shared and—

The noise behind him was quiet like tiny butterfly wings or the brush of jeans against grass but it was loud as a gunshot against his panicked ears. Sam dug his toes in as he took off at a run again. When the noise came again it was louder—not cautious—the hunt was over and the race was on. He had longer legs but Dean had paced himself better. (Dean couldn’t lose, he never ever could have because he had to win or die trying.) Sam ran like hell, ran at a break-neck speed, ran without hope of escape and that just moved his knees and ankles and thighs and arms and whole body all the faster.

Last time they’d done this, it seemed so long ago, they’d been just little boys with no better ideas of what they were playing with than boys ever had. Dean had been nursing a curse that was turning his soul black and Sam was nursing the guilt of it so heavy that he would have flayed off his skin just to save his brother. He’d run then, run from the reality of it, run from the magnitude of it, run from Dean and his curse and their fate and his own stupid impotence. When Dean had caught him then, he’d shoved him in the shifting rough rocks and wrapped his arms around him with his face against the back of Sam’s neck and he’d fucked against his ass through their jeans with the desperate and mindless urgency of a rabid animal. More than anything he’d known with Dean’s teeth through his shirt and digging one single bruise into his skin that he’d lost his brother.

When Dean caught him this time it was a shove against his back, throwing Sam’s balance too far forward and making him trip. A hand at the back of his shirt pulled him enough to be sure when he went down he didn’t hit his face. Sam landed on his elbows and his knees with Dean’s body falling against his back—all weight and no grace. His shirt was yanked up against his throat tight enough he felt like it was trying to strangle him before the buttons started popping away with soundless little noises. One after another until the shirt was useless and hanging open down his chest. Dean’s hands were underneath the gaping edges of the shirt, pawing at his body with no concern for him but the selfish act of _taking_ those touches without asking. His fingers pinched and his nails dug in and Sam jerked an elbow back to knocked him off. With Dean’s weight off his back he scrambled forward a few precious inches before hard hands grabbed his thighs and dragged him back.

Dean was hard—hard hands, hard arms, hard pants of breath against his skin and hard dick shoving in against his ass. The slickness there, from the lube and sweat, made him gasp at the rough shove of jeans and boxers across his skin. He dug one elbow in and the other down to pull open his belt with fumbling-shaking fingers. Dean’s hands were careless on his hips, holding him there with a bruise-tight grip. Sam’s heart was just thundering-thundering so loud it was all he could hear except his own whining breath. Down between his thighs when he shoved his button open and his zipper down he could feel how hard he was against his palm and wondered at how he didn’t feel aroused at all. 

Nails caught his skin when Dean yanked his loosened jeans down his ass, left them there across his thighs and reached around him to palm his hard dick quick like it didn’t matter to him just that he wanted to know. Sam dug his toes in and surged forward again but the scratching tightness of Dean’s hands just pulled him back and the hard-blunt dig of teeth against his back made him shout in shock and surprise. 

Dean’s hand ran up the slickness between his thighs and the cheeks of his ass to rub two dirty-rough fingers across the pucker of his asshole before slipping up his back and then he shifted behind him. Sam heard the teeth of his zipper parting (heard it like his heart beat in his ears rushing blood through his skull and leaving him mindless). The wild, darting, wicked thought in his head was to scream and scream _loud_ , to shout no and jerk and cry and fight and see if Dean would take him anyway. It was a perversion, twisted in his gut and he hadn’t ever done it but every time he found himself here with Dean’s fat dick shoving in against his ass, rubbing through the slickness of the lube he’d poured there—he wondered.

(But no, no—he wouldn’t do that to Dean. He wouldn’t ask Dean to go that far.)

“Christ,” Sam grit against the salt-sweat of his arm, tasted hair against his tongue and felt Dean shoving into him all at once. It was a rough-long slide into his body as he shuddered and tightened and fought back against the suddenness of the intrusion. The friction was just shy of too fucking much and he had to catch himself from really starting to fight, to calm down his chest and his muscles so they gave and let Dean dig in his fingers and pull him back harder-faster so his body was exactly where and how Dean wanted.

“Jesus,” Dean said behind him (a floating little voice) and one of his hands slid up the dip of Sam’s back, all along his spine, thumb casually tracing the tense of his muscles. It was a careless, affectionate gesture that was out of place against the burn of Sam’s body gripped around Dean’s dick. It was a screaming contrast to the burn of bite marks and the scratches and the slow forming ache of bruises left by Dean’s hands.

It confused him and then, with the brain of a wild animal, he couldn’t separate Dean’s need to reassure himself with his careless slip of affection. Sam pulled away again, felt the drag of Dean’s dick slipping out of his body the same way it had gone in—all friction burn—and then he was yanked back by the shirt, by rough hands that caught at his skin and slipped-pinched-hurt. Dean wrapped an arm around him, back hunched and hips close against his like a fucking dog. He stretched out across his dipped back, wrapped both his arms around him, one set of fingers pinching at his already sore tit and he started _fucking_. 

Dean was a creature of instinct—out here, like this, devoid of affection or the obvious show of love, he still tilted his hips and dragged Sam’s knee out so that when he fucked in hard-and-fast he was hitting him right where it felt _good_. Every thrust knocked him in against the dirt and his hair was dragging in against it, the grass was tickling his chin and forehead and closed eyes as he shoved his face against his arm and tried to bite back the cries of pain-and-pleasure that were so wrapped around one another he couldn’t tell the difference. His dick was throbbing now and all the confusing misunderstanding of how he’d come to be hard was suddenly resolved with the blind desire to get _off_. He had one elbow in the dirt and one fist wrapped around Dean’s wrist so tight he was going to leave bruises across the knob of his bones that everyone would see and wonder about. 

Dean’s hands were rubbing at his chest, dragging down his side, pinching at his hard and rubbed-rough-raw nipples so that his chest hurt from the pound of his heart, the constriction of his heaving lungs and the abuse of his sensitive skin. His belly was tied up in knots and his knees were skinned in his jeans while his ass was aching and split wide open, being fucked ruthless and brutally by Dean’s driving hips. 

When he came—hot, hard, all at once—it was a shock to him and he bleated a single mangled cry at odd pain-hot-pleasure of it. Dean didn’t notice and didn’t care, reached down to cup his dick once and found him wet with come and only barely starting to go soft. He heard his name then and felt the lethargic limpness of his body shaking with every hard punch of Dean’s hips fucking into him. 

Dean was all that held him up, pulled him back one last time—hard, shaking—and then Dean went still except for his starving lungs begging for breath and the fluttering quickness of his heart Sam could feel against his back.

They stayed still for a minute, like that, with Dean still buried in him, staying hard from the unreal excitement of it. Sam would have collapsed and wallowed in it but Dean kept him there (on his knees) to grind down against with painful bursts of pleasure and sandpaper rough scrapes of pleasure. 

“Sammy,” Dean whispered against his shoulder blade, through the soaked material of his shirt. His voice was fucked-out and needy. His hands were softer now but still taking all they wanted without asking permission first. Before they’d hurt and now they soothed, offering comforting touches that were meant to wipe away the bruises they’d left behind before. “Sammy.”

It took a second, the swallow of spit and breath and then the unimaginable effort to lift his head just enough to turn it so he could see Dean’s pale face peering down at him. “I’m here Dean,” he said softly. 

He was never afraid of losing himself but Dean was terrified of it. He had to hear his voice, had to touch him like this to bring him back from whatever edge he assume he’d pushed Sam to. Dean moved back as gently as he could but it still hurt and now that Sam was full of thoughts (not mindless, not any more) he could control the flinch and hiss of his body and breath. Dean smoothed hands down him and urged him over, onto his back in the damp grass so he could see his face. Dean tugged Sam’s jeans back up, tucked him back into his boxers but left his jeans sprawled open before he crawled up his body. 

Sam touched his face, thumb across his cheekbone, down across his lips leaving trails of the dirt. Dean kissed him with that dirt on his lips, pretty and chaste kisses. Sam pulled him in harder, opened his mouth and pressed their tongues together. He pulled Dean out of the repentance with own acceptance and his own planned touches. He knew how to bring Dean back from the edge he’d been shoved to and how to hold him there with loose palms cupped around his face. 

Yes, I want this. Yes, I love you. Yes, I know you’ll always find me. Yes, I know.

I know.

\--

The morning after was the hardest part. Dean was good at handling the want. He was good at being patient between admitting what he needed and Sam telling him it was time. Those long hours that fed into days between _I want to hunt you_ and actually hunting him. He was good at all of that. He could even handle the chase, the fucking, the immediate after when he felt like he was going to shake apart at the joints and Sam was always so loose and lax and distant from him. He was good at pulling it back together, at getting Sam on his spaghetti legs and back across the hunting grounds to wherever the fuck they’d been staying.

Dean was good at scrubbing away the evidence from his skin and Sam’s skin and stowing away the clothes they’d worn. He was good at burying bodies and muddy clothes and dirty skin were hardly as hard to clean up after as bodies. 

It was the _morning_ after that he couldn’t handle. It was Sam’s slow waking, the way he shifted when he sat and took forever to get to his feet. The contrast of dark bruises on his tanned skin and how they hurt him and it showed in the slow-motion movements of his body. Sam’s blurry eyes and grimacing lips were the hardest part.

Dean would never-ever hurt his brother (not in his right mind) and he’d killed more than a few things that had hurt his brother. The rage that came with Sam’s pain was the hardest part because it had nowhere to go and nothing to do while it lingered but fester and boil and _hate_. 

Sam had taught him the routine of the morning after. Tylenol. Water. Breakfast. He’d been calm and patient every morning after even if it was his body carrying the brunt of what they’d done. When Dean got the routine right he got a smile from Sam and it made the tight pinched corners of his lips quirk up and the blurry distance in his eyes lighten. 

When they were away from the scene of the crime and back in a diner with hard vinyl seats, Sam would sigh into his coffee and roll his shoulders. He inspected the parts of his arms that showed and then Dean’s arms and wrists and face. “Look, I got you.” He ran his thumb across the bruise he left on Dean’s wrist (the only bruise, the only mark) and dug it in to make it hurt again. 

“That was luck, not skill,” Dean said. He moved his hand away when the food came and concentrated on the mechanical action of chew-swallow while Sam took his time working through his breakfast. On morning after’s the breakfast was always greasy and huge. Sam devoured every bit of it and licked up the last bit of gravy too. 

Most of the meal was silence, they didn’t talk about work. They didn’t talk about what they did. They didn’t talk about the marks on Sam’s body (because they weren’t bad, not really, not any worse than any day after a monster hunt). They ate and drank their coffee and then paid their bill and left a tip. 

The morning after became the early afternoon after while they were listening to music silently in the Impala. When Dean couldn’t stand it he found a town and a hotel and Sam lugged their bags in and locked the door behind them. Dean stripped his brother naked to the skin and looked at what his hands had done.

Bruises on his hips, one on his thigh, teeth marks on his back and scratches wherever his nails had been. His chest was bruised around one of his nipples and he was shifting on his feet like his ass was aching from having to ride in the car all fucking day. 

“Done?” Sam asked. Dean nodded his head and Sam stripped him of all his clothes, stared and prodded and searched him the same as he been done to him. His fingers were gentle but clinical and Dean felt naked and scared and hateful. “Do you trust me?” Sam said against the back of his ear. His body was a warm ghost against his back (not touching, not at all).

“Yes,” Dean said.

“Then trust that I wouldn’t let you hurt me,” Sam said. He didn’t mean the bruises or the ache of his abused body he meant in the other way, in the way that counted—the way that Dean was so afraid of. Sam’s arms came around his chest from behind and he shuffled in so their bodies were pressed together in a softened, sweet mockery of how Dean had held him last night when he fucked him mindlessly. Sam’s dick was soft against his back. 

“Come on, Sam,” he said. His voice was denial and his body echoed it in the stiff stance as Sam held onto him. He shrugged one shoulder and Sam smiled in against his neck. “We done with this? Maybe we should find a job or something.”

Sam’s big hand moved down his body and curled around Dean’s own soft dick, slid down to his thigh, traced the arch of muscle up to his waist and slid back across to his belly button. “I’m taking a nap,” he said suddenly like everything was normal again. “You find a job.”

Sam picked up his clothes to pull back on and threw Dean’s jeans at him. 

“Lazy ass,” Dean mumbled.

Sam was grinning as he stretched out on the bed.


End file.
